Diary of a Mad Vicomte
by FortunesFavour
Summary: Raoul thinks back on the past year and makes a New Year’s resolution: to become more like Erik. Raoul-based, but Erik will appear later. R&R!
1. Chapter 1: A New Year's Resolution

Ch

**A/N:** Salutations and thank you for deciding to give my phanphic a try. This is my first publication here, but I do consider myself a serious writer (in fact, I am a playwright). Therefore, I strive to create intelligent yet entertaining pieces of fiction. As those reading this, I am a huge fan of POTO. The characters touch us because they speak to big human emotions. I am just borrowing the fascinating human beings that Leroux created.

I read Leroux's novel eight years ago, so my memory on it is not perfect (but I at least have that as an authoritative base). I love the ALW musical, but I also performed in the Yeston and Kopit musical (the Charles Dance/Teri Polo film is based on that musical). I have purchased the Kay version but have only read some of it. Therefore, my characters are based on any and all of these various influences. Again, I am just borrowing characters. In fact, the personalities of Erik, Christine, and Raoul are probably more based on the phanphiction I have read than anything else. I am just having fun. I admire the writers who strive for Leroux accuracy, so perhaps I will write something more like that in the future. I have taken some liberties (i.e. Raoul and Christine did not escape to the north somewhere. They are still near Paris. Also, "_Erik is not dead._"). This piece is just meant to be fun (yet intelligent!).

I do appreciate reviews, but please remember this is for fun. Don't obsess about little comma errors. Just enjoy my story. I am not obsessing about being overly accurate to any one version of the story. Constructive criticism only please. I shall hold chapters hostage until I get reviews! Let me know if I should continue this piece.

I have thought about writing "Diary of a Mad Vicomte" for some time. So many stories are based on Erik (don't get me wrong, I prefer Erik myself!), so I thought I would give Raoul a shot. I think both Erik and Raoul fans will enjoy this. Erik fans, do not fret. He will make a cameo or two later, as will Christine. Otherwise, those two characters are mentioned rather than playing an active role. Raoul is the star of this one! I have given Raoul a very real (yet comical) human emotion. He is perturbed over the fact that he almost lost Christine to an ugly man! Sit back and enjoy as Raoul tries to become more like Erik – and fails miserably! Written in a diary format, each chapter is an entry in Raoul's diary.

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** I am supposed to do this, right? Well, I do not own any plot devices or characters from _The Phantom of the Opera_. Those belong to Msr. Gaston Leroux and any subsequent version of the story.

And now, let us begin!

Ch. 1: A New Year's Resolution

December 31, 18--,

Dear Diary,

As the old year draws to a close, and the New Year is about to begin, I cannot help but reflect on the course my life has taken. I have spent the past year as husband to a truly incredible woman. My Christine is wonderfully talented, beautiful, kind, and compassionate – perhaps too much so. I should be happy, so why is it that I am not? The love of a good woman should be enough to sustain most men for a lifetime, and yet that is not all I have been blessed with! I have wealth, good standing in society, an established family name, and a title! I am a count, you see! Certainly, the title and the accompanying wealth did not come under the best of circumstances, and I would instantly forgo such privileges to have my brother return to me! I would gladly return to being Viscount – a second son destined to a life of tedious social calls and efforts to supplement a meager inheritance (as most of a family's wealth is entailed to the oldest male) – if only to see Philippe's smiling face again. However, it is not to be. _He _made certain of that. Enough of him.

Yes, I should be content. Is not wealth, property, status, and love all that a man could want? I certainly have it all. Certainly, my brother's death – _murder _– has affected me. However, I fear that the lost of a most beloved family member and friend is not the cause of my unrest. Rather, I fear it is the agent in his death that haunts me. _He _certainly has experience in the realm of haunting. I try to push him out of my mind, deny he is the source of my discomfort, and refuse to think of him. However, _he _is not so easily forgotten. One can never forget Erik.

It is not his face that haunts me – though one could hardly blame me if that was the case. It is his entire being. It is the way that his presence still haunts my wife that troubles me. I certainly do not doubt Christine's loyalty to me. She is a good girl. She is easily contented. However, I fear that that is exactly what she is – _content_. I do not want to settle for that. Yes, she loves me. Her eyes hold the same adoration I feel shining forth from my own as I look at her. Still, part of me fears that – dare I even say it? – part of me fears that I am just not _exciting _enough for her. I am a good man, I know! But I fear – I can see! – that I do not arouse the same keen interest, fascination, and intensity that that man once did! He held her soul and utter devotion. I hold her loyalty, her admiration, her affection . . . her _regard_. How I hate that word! It is passive. I am passive. I am . . . _safe_. If I were a confection, I would be made of vanilla. Erik would be some strange combination of ingredients that should not go well together yet somehow work. Erik would be the chocolate and chili powder that combine to create a delicious mole.

I want to inspire passion. I want to be chocolate with chili powder! Yes, it is true. I, the Comte de Chagny, heir to a vast estate and lofty title, am jealous of the Opera Ghost. When compared to him, I just do not feel adequate. You laugh, I know! I ask you, how would you feel if you almost lost the woman you love to a hideously deformed man who was just a few peas short of a casserole, if you know what I mean? Am I being cruel? Perhaps. At least cruelty and bitterness have some degree of passion.

It is with this thought that I have decided to make a resolution for the New Year. I will do what it takes to prove to my Christine that I, too, can be passionate and mysterious! I almost lost her once. Unless drastic measures are taken, I fear that I could risk losing her again. I will do what it takes. I will do what I need to even if it goes as far as becoming more like . . . well . . . like Erik.


	2. Chapter 2: A Plan of Action

Ch

Ch. 2: A Plan of Action

January 2, 18--,

Dear Diary,

Christine and I spent a pleasant New Year at the De Chagny Estate. Yes, _pleasant. _How soon we break our resolutions after making them! New Year's Eve went according to plan. We hosted the most illustrious families in France to a splendid dinner commemorating the first holiday season of Christine's and my marriage. We dazzled the throngs with seven splendid courses, and each plate came out in prompt, neat, tidy succession. Each course was spaced according to a strict timeframe maintained by my kitchen staff. Discussion amongst the men was limited to local politics and the economic concerns of those of our station. The women remained the models of grace and propriety as they nodded and smiled at their husbands. Everything was perfect.

How I hated it! Not one thing about the evening was out of the ordinary! I kept scolding myself, "Be spontaneous! Do something interesting! How would Erik handle an evening such as this?" I could not help but laugh at that thought. Try as I might to imagine Erik hosting twelve of the most distinguished families in France to a dinner party, I simply could not fathom the idea. I could not even imagine him eating. Certainly he must eat at times. It is a natural human function. Still, his weight hardly suggests any sort of regular dining habits. If Erik ever did host a dinner party, the evening would probably end with him striking someone over the head with a baguette. I just could not bring myself to do that. It would be in poor taste to bludgeon one's dinner guest with a baked good.

Still, the tedium of the evening was not lost upon me. Christine certainly appeared the gracious hostess. She even seemed happy. However, her smile was _content and pleasant _rather than elated. A woman such as her deserves excitement. I could have done something . . . _anything _. . . to make the evening more romantic. Therefore, today I formulated a plan of action. I tried to ponder what it is about Erik that could be appealing to a woman. You see, Christine is not the only one drawn to his powerful presence. On more than one occasion at the opera, I have heard ladies – and not the course kind found among the ranks of the ballerinas or chorus girls but women of society! – remark on the romance of the legend of the Opera Ghost! Not knowing it was indeed the De Chagny family that was intimately connected with the legend, the women would remark that they wished they had a devoted suitor who would carry them off as the Ghost reportedly did to a young, unnamed soprano!

What is it about Erik? Looks he simply does not have. Frankly, he does not come across as particularly charming, either. I was brought up with the belief that women desire comfort and security. Erik is moody, ill-tempered, and often violent . . . and he lives in the cellar of an opera house. Not exactly comfortable or secure. He certainly has an air of mystery. The mask contributes to that. I suppose mystery _could_ be appealing to women. Perhaps that offsets his ugliness and complete lack of prospects or manners. Still, if women want comfort and security, why is it that they seem to prefer mysterious, _dangerous _men? I simply do not understand women. I do not think I ever will.

Erik is also intelligent and talented. According to the little I have learned from Mme. Giry, the Persian, and Christine, Erik is well-traveled and knows several languages. His talents for music and architecture cannot be denied, either. I suppose those things are attractive. Still, most men I know do quite well being only moderately more educated than their wives.

Taking into consideration Erik's general personality and talents, I have compiled a list of his attributes that could be useful in acquiring to become more appealing to my wife. My list is reproduced below:

--mysterious (wears mask, cape, and evening wear in all seasons and at all times of day)

--temperamental (practice being spontaneous and otherwise ambiguous in my emotions)

-- a linguist (find my German book)

-- a magician

-- a musician (I suppose I could dust off the pianoforte)

-- an architect

-- writes letters signed "Your obedient servant, O.G." (I suppose this is part of being mysterious)

-- lurks in shadows (also part of the mystery)

Tomorrow is a new day -- one that will be full of passion, mystery, and spontaneity. Now, I must speak with Willis about my agenda for tomorrow.

Yours,

Raoul, Comte de Chagny


	3. Chapter 3: Adopting an Air of Mystery

A/N: Thank you to all who have signed on to read my little tale

**A/N: **Thank you to all who have signed on to read my little tale. I had over 80 hits! Yay! However, not everyone who read chapter 1 returned for chapter 2. Boo. Also, I only received 7 reviews (and 2 were from me commenting to those who did review). Please leave a review! They really make me feel good! I love hearing from all of you.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own POTO. The market Christine goes to exists in Paris today.

**My FanFic of the Week:** Something I will do from now on. Once a week I will recommend a different favorite phantom phic. This way, I can advertise your stories. However, I will not recommend your piece unless you give me a review that week. Sneaky, huh? My first recommendation is for BleedingHeartConservative and her tale "Therapeutic." This piece is very intelligently written and has dynamic, realistic characters. Give her story a shot!

Ch. 3: Adopting an Air of Mystery

January 3, 18--,

Dear Diary,

Today I decided to begin my transformation. In consulting my list of "Erik Attributes," I concluded that it would be much easier altering my personality and habits -- only slightly, mind you – rather than focusing on elements that require any particular skills or talent. Skills and talent I can acquire later. Therefore, I decided to focus on adopting the most prevalent aspect of Erik's personality – an air of mystery.

The air of mystery surrounding Erik is perhaps best attributed to his general living habits. After all, he _is _the Opera Ghost. This is a man who dwells in the lowest cellar of the Palais Garnier! Alas, I do not have a vast opera cellar at my disposal. However, clothing is relatively easy to change. Erik tends to wear black rather incessantly – definitely mysterious. I myself have always preferred earth tones, but I determined to add some more black to my wardrobe. I immediately spoke to Willis about ordering some new suits. I remembered that Erik wears a cloak and fedora, as well. I thought a cloak might be rather nice, but a fedora, I cannot do. My head simply does not have the proper shape for hats.

What of the mask? . . . No, I already determined that that is out of the question. A mask is certainly mysterious, but I rather like my face. It would be a shame to cover it up. Not to mention, I, well, I have a slight glandular problem. I tend to sweat profusely, and a mask would just exacerbate things. Also, my moustache would probably make the thing terribly irritating. Therefore, I settled for black clothing and a cloak.

Today, I also reflected on Erik's personality. Erik tends to be quite temperamental. One minute he is calm and collected – the image of a perfect gentleman (except for the mask). The next minute, something sets him off, and he becomes sullen, moody, sarcastic, and violent. I myself would find such sudden fluctuations in mood rather frustrating. One would think the man was pregnant. Perhaps, the man's fickleness makes women able to relate to him easily. Perhaps, women like the challenge of a man who is not so easy to please. Maybe that makes him exciting. One cannot be certain.

Thus, I decided to enact my own experiment in adopting Erik's volatile personality. Christine had decided the day before that she would spend this Saturday with Mme. Rieux and her young daughter Cecile, our neighbors, at the Aguesseau Market near Le Madeleine here in Paris. Christine had planned to leave early and be back by noon.

After consulting Willis about the issue of my wardrobe and writing correspondences with my various business partners, I decided to sit in the parlor to await the return of my beloved wife. Attentiveness is good. Erik, after all, was quite attentive. I once thought his behavior – hiding behind mirrors and such – was rather obsessive, but women do enjoy being fussed over. Yes, attentiveness could certainly placate a woman's desire for safety and security. A husband, after all, must protect his wife.

Our apartment is located on the Rue de Montmorency. Our rooms consist of two guest bedrooms, a master suite for Christine and me, a library, two powder rooms, a sitting room in the back overlooking our rose garden, a kitchen, servants' quarters, my study and a parlor. Our parlor overlooks the street, thus my reason for choosing to wait here for Christine. Reclining amongst the folds of our deep burgundy, velvet curtains and the equally opulent matching pillows, I perched myself in the parlor's comfortable window seat. From this position, I had a good view of the street below. I would see returning Christine before she saw me. Yes, very Erik-like. Christine would love my attention.

After staring out the window for fifteen minutes or so, I began to grow restless. Where was she? Certainly she must be finished with her shopping. Trying to find a way to occupy myself, I stole away to our well-supplied library. Grabbing the first book I saw, I glanced down at the title.

"_Frankenstein_. How appropriate. Perhaps, the gothic tale could provide me with some insight into how to sympathize with a monster," I thought.

Bringing the novel back to the parlor, I resumed my place at the window. I tried to concentrate on reading, but my mind would not focus. Glancing at the large grandfather clock in the corner, I noted the time.

"Twelve fifteen."

Just then, I heard the familiar clack of horses' hooves on the cobblestone outside. I peered through the curtains to see my lovely wife. Christine was dressed in a lovely peach dress, one I knew would be in the Josephine style she preferred, though I could not see the dress in its entirety due to the long cloak Christine wore to keep out the cold January air. Christine began descending from the carriage with the help of our footman Jacque, and I instinctively rose and made for the door to escort my much-missed wife into out home. However, something made me pause.

"My dear wife is fifteen minutes late. Why? What could have detained her? She appears well and is even laughing and smiling? And where is Mme. Rieux?" I pondered.

I could not imagine why my merely content wife was suddenly so cheerful. Then, it hit me. The Aguesseau Market. Le Madeleine. Not so far from the Palais Garnier. Erik! Could it be my content wife was seeking alternate means of "diversion?" I am simply not enough for her. I would not, however, be so easily defeated. I would beat the Opera Ghost at his own game. Yes, I would respond as Erik would to such treachery.

Laying back down in the window seat, I propped up my legs, stared at the door, and waited for my wife to enter. The door opened with a creak, and Christine soon appeared in the room.

Entering the parlor, Christine replied cheerily, "Raoul, my love! Were you waiting for me?"

Rising, I responded icily yet calmly, "Why of course, my dear! _I _always await _you _with bated breath!"

My emphasis on the words "I" and "you" was not lost upon my wife. Frowning, she responded, "You are angry with me, but why? What have I done?"

I walked over to my anxious wife. I removed her gray cloak and handed it to Willis, who had entered the room to assist us. I waved Willis away, and he left us alone. I had to time my next move perfectly. Erik would hold his emotions in until they began to bubble over like lava from a volcano. Increased tension results in more power. I would make my dear wife think all is well. What a surprise she would be in for!

Taking Christine by the hands, I began to stroke the soft skin of her fingers. I would be delicate. I would be seductive.

"My beautiful, Christine, what could you have done, indeed? You are perfection itself. It is I who always seem to fall short!" Yes, I liked that one. Erik was always crawling around on his knees decrying his inadequacies before my wife. I am beginning to think that women like to make men feel inferior. Perhaps, it gives them the power and authority they otherwise lack in society and relationships. I am willing to grant my wife such a façade of power if it makes her happy. Still, do not woman wish to be protected and dominated in a relationship – that safety and security? Again, the mind of a woman is a paradox. Perhaps, that is why Erik's contrasting moments of gentleness and violence attract so many. He is alternately powerless and powerful. I would try this.

"Oh, my dear love! Why do you say such things? You know I feel you are wonderful! Tell me what it is that is truly bothering you."

Now was the moment I would turn the tide. Dear, innocent Christine expected nothing. She had her moment of power. Now, I would have mine.

"What would be bothering me other than my inadequacies as a husband? Is it not I who am supposed to provide for you, my dear loving wife? I cannot even do that! I cannot even provide you with a ladies' watch to adorn your bag!"

"But I do have such a time piece! You gave it to me just this Christmas!"

"Yes, but it must be of inferior quality, as it no longer works!" I lamented.

"No longer works? It certainly does!"

"My dear Christine, you must be mistaken, for, if it works, that means you are incapable of telling time! I certainly know that I did not marry a simpleton, and you are fifteen minutes late!"

"Late? Raoul, we had no plans this afternoon!"

"Did you go to the market?" I asked.

"Yes, we arrived at eight, as planned."

"At eight? What did you purchase?"

"I ordered supplies for our kitchen – fruit, vegetables, and fish," Christine responded.

"Fruit, vegetables, and fish? From the same vendor?" I questioned innocently.

"Well, no, but all were in near proximity. I don't see what this has to . . . "

Interrupting her, I replied, "And you needed four hours to make the necessary transactions? Certainly, that is excessive!"

"Raoul, what are you suggesting? That I somehow went somewhere else during this time?"

"I am suggesting nothing, my love, only making observations!"

"Accusations are more like it!" Her blue eyes flashing, Christine was beginning to raise her voice. I would not let her have the upper hand.

"Call them what you will, I will not have a disloyal wife! I will be 'honored and obeyed!'" Yes, that was good. Very Erik-like.

"Disloyal? Raoul, how could you think I would be disloyal to you!"

"Only that you spent four hours buying fruit! But perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps, you merely, stopped to take in a matinee opera."

"Opera? Raoul, are you suggesting that? . . . oh, the nerve!"

Christine then began to cry. She was getting hysterical. I cannot handle when women become hysterical. I know it was not the most Erik-like thing to do, but I did the only thing I could. I ran. However, Christine pursued me.

When I reached the stairs, I heard her call after me, "Oh, no you don't! You cannot lay bare such accusations and then walk away!"

Reaching the door of our room, I turned to find Christine right behind me.

"You will talk to me!" she yelled.

I wanted to take her into my arms and apologize. I wanted to hold her and tell her I loved her. However, I knew I must stick to my plan. I did what I felt Erik would do in this situation. I slammed the door on her face.

Yours,

Raoul


	4. Chapter 4: Buying a Cape

A/N: I just couldn't wait

**A/N: **I just couldn't wait! I won't always update this quickly, but I had a lot of fun with this next chapter. Raoul goes cape shopping . . .

**Disclaimer: **I do not own POTO. Also, I made a sorry attempt to use French in naming the cape shop. I do not speak French. If you do, and I made an error, please let me know. I was attempting to call the cape shop "Very Nice Cape Shop."

Enjoy Chapter 4!

Ch. 4: Buying a Cape

January 4, 18--,

Dear Diary,

I slept on the chaise last night. Christine seemed rather upset over the door-slamming incident.

This morning, Willis placed all of my evening wear and any other black clothing I owned on my bed. He also ordered three more black suits from my favorite tailor. As Christine refused to speak to me all day, I decided to go cloak shopping.

I trust Willis' taste explicitly in the matter of suits. In that respect, I am not particular. However, in the matter of a cape, I wished to be more discerning. Therefore, I decided to embark upon the task of purchasing a cloak for myself. I would settle for nothing less than a cloak worthy of the infamous Opera Ghost. Erik's cape was like nothing I had ever seen before. The stitching and inlay were impeccable. However, it also held something else – a certain unnamed quality that could inspire awe, fear, submission, obedience.

"It must be able to swish."

The clerk at _Le_ _boutique de cape __tres joli_looked at me as if I suddenly sprouted a second head. The aging man appeared to be somewhere between the ages of 70 and 200 years old. I would guess the former due to the fact that he was still living and breathing (albeit barely) in front of me. However, his general appearance would suggest the later. _Monsieur de Cape _was of a tall and gangly type. His skin, hanging loosely from his bones, was a pale and dusty white. His hair, what little of it he had, was also white and littered with flakes of dry skin. The clerk's eyes were hollow and set far back in his head. However, he was dressed as neatly as any man making a decent living as a merchant. Despite his outward decrepit-ness, the man seemed to take pride in grooming. Something told me he and Erik would get along well.

"I beg your pardon, Monsieur?" he replied. "'Swish?'"

"Yes, you know, 'swish.'"

Looking at me with a bemused expression, the clerk began to lean more heavily on the mahogany desk before him. Near his right arm lay the cape he had been working on when I entered. If the man was too dense to understand my meaning of "swish," I would simply have to demonstrate for him. Grabbing the fabric, I attempted to put it on gracefully by whirling it behind my head. Unfortunately, in the process I seemed to have caused the material to twist. Part of the material was in the right direction. The other was inside out. This was not going how I had hoped.

"Well, I suppose it does take practice," I said, trying to smile.

"It would seem so, Monsieur," replied the clerk. I could not help but feel as if that man was patronizing me.

"Why don't we look at a few capes? I have some here you might be interested in." The clerk hobbled from behind the massive mahogany desk. He grabbed a small wooden cane and directed my attention across the room to racks holding capes of various styles and colors.

"Now, this one is very nice," said the man, pulling out a cape the color of granite.

"It must be black, Monsieur."

"Has someone died?"

"No! Why would you assume that?"

"Oh, no reason," he replied smugly.

I was beginning to understand Erik's frustration. If clerks were this impertinent every time one tried to purchase clothing, one could not help but be a little hot-tempered.

I was about to voice my frustration when the clerk pulled out an absolutely stunning specimen. The silk cloak was a deep raven black except for the lining which was a marvelous emerald green. Yes, this would do nicely. Only one matter left to be settled.

"Does it swish?" I queried.

"I suppose all of our capes 'swish,' Monsieur."

I was about to politely ask the man the cost of the cape, but I could not ignore the tone of the elderly man's voice. Yes, he was patronizing me. The gall! After all, does not a man have the right to question the "swishability" of any cape he chooses? To purchase a cape only to find later that it does not swish would be unthinkable. Erik would not tolerate such impertinence. What would he do? Come to think of it, in simply _buying_ a cloak, Erik would never just walk to the counter and pay the proprietor. In fact, he would probably make the proprietor pay him for the honor of making his clothing. So, how would the Opera Ghost handle such rudeness?

To my left stood a shelf holding yards of fabric for, as of yet, unfinished capes. I grabbed the fabric and dashed it all to the floor.

"How dare you take that tone with me, you impertinent fool! I have a right to a swishable cape, do I not!" I screamed, feeling the blood rise to my face. This anger certainly is liberating. I took a bottle of ink from the clerk's desk and dumped the contents onto the crumpled pile of fabric on the floor. For good measure, I began jumping up and down on the pile, grinding the ink further into the folds of wool, cotton, and silk. I later regretted this action. A grown man jumping up and down on a pile of clothing must have looked peculiar.

A bead of perspiration began to stream down the clerk's face. I was making him nervous. Good.

"Yyyyess, Monsieur. You have the right to a swishable cape."

A few pedestrians had wandered in from the street during this intercourse. I am sure they wondered at the absurdity of a nobleman causing such a ruckus. The crowd began to look back and forth from the one of us to the other, uncertain of what would happen next and who would make the next move. My conscience immediately regretted causing such a scene, but I reminded myself that Erik would not care in the least. I tried to strike a balance between my conflicting emotions by remaining firm yet kind.

"Then can you guarantee that this cape will perform to my specifications?"

"Yes, Monsieur, and you can certainly return it if it does not!" the clerk replied hastily. After dabbling the sweat that was pouring down his temples, the man began to fan himself with the handkerchief. I was certain that I would drive the poor man to a heart attack.

Regretting the undue anxiety I had caused the proprietor of _Le boutique de cape tres joli_, I paid the clerk for my cloak and the yards of fabric I had destroyed. Not a very Erik-like thing, I admit, but at least I left a bit of chaos and destruction in my wake.

I returned home dressed in the one black suit I owned and proudly wearing my brand new black, "swishable" cape. Christine, visibly in a better mood than this morning, approached me. She started, "Raoul, I just wanted to say that I am . . ., " pausing, she looked at me. "My dear, what has happened? Has someone died?"

Yours forlornly,

Raoul


	5. Chapter 5: Gratuitous Cape Swishing

A/N: Miss me

**A/N:** Miss me? I'm back! Boo, writer's block. However, this is a nice long, and hopefully funny, chapter for your enjoyment. I have submitted a few changes (not big ones) in Chapter 3. Raoul and Christine now live on the Rue de Montmorency instead of the Rue de Filles de Calvaire. I was trying to find an arrondissement that they realistically would live in, and the Marais (third/fourth arrondissement) seemed likely. It is one of the oldest neighborhoods in the city, and the Rue de Montmorency is the location of the oldest private home (built in 1407) in Paris. Raoul also now has a study. Now, for the gratuity . . . I am not much for gratuitousness with anything . . . except cape-swishing! I must admit, with this chapter, I had the 2004 movie in mind entirely (just to give you a visual). Talk about gratuitous cape swishing! So, if you want to visualize what Raoul is trying to do, think Gerard Butler on the scaffold or in the "batcave." **By the way, I now accept anonymous reviews, so please R&R even if you are not a registered member of this site.**

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _POTO._

**Dedication:** This chapter goes out to indiefilm. Happy Birthday, "Dark Destroyer!" Recognize the little characters I added just for you?

**FanFic of the Week:** This week's award is for one of indiefilm's favorites – "The Price of Fame" by OperaCloak (ooooh, more capes!). If you like humor phics, this one is for you – I was laughing (out loud) nonstop. OperaCloak is a genius for picking up on little inconsistencies in our beloved story. Anything by OperaCloak is great (esp. "The Price of Fame" and a lovely little one-shot about Erik and chocolate pudding).

Now, on with the story!

Ch. 5: Gratuitous Cape Swishing (or What Not to Wear)

_Last time . . . Raoul went on a quest for a swishable cape._

Friday, January 11, 18--,

Dear Diary,

Today's goal: destroy cape.

Yes, I know you must be wondering what happened to cause my normally pacifistic nature to threaten violence against a harmless and unsuspecting addition to one's wardrobe. My friend, nothing less than an absolute, unmitigated disaster could drive my soul to the depths of violence and depravity only Erik himself could rival.

All began well. In reflecting on my recent behavior, namely my unjustified jealousy towards Christine and that particularly humiliating incident at the cape shop, I decided that it would be best if I toned down my "Erik-ness" a bit. I couldn't help but wonder what strange influence that man had over me. He was nowhere near me, yet he had the ability to alter my behavior – my _nature _– entirely. I determined that I had best be more wary of myself in the future. After all, I was a gentleman! I would not let him take my dignity from me. I was only altering my habits _slightly_ – picking and choosing aspects of the Opera Ghost's personality that would be useful in maintaining the interest of my wife. All I needed was to infuse a bit of romance and excitement. The poor woman did not need to fear for her life. Therefore, I began the week behaving with perfect decorum. I was a dutiful, attendant, and patient husband. Never once did I raise my voice above anything that would be unsuitable in the company of a lover's caress.

It was with that lover's caress in mind that I vowed to do something utterly romantic for my lovely Christine. I could certainly borrow with impunity elements of romance from the seductive Erik. Suggestions for how to stage a romantic evening could be acquired without the fear of falling into the dark amoral abyss of Erik's world, could they not? I decided to take Christine out for a romantic dinner, and I would be the object of grace and finesse.

I spent each morning for the entire week refining my skills with my newly acquired cape. I would arise before dawn and seclude myself in the study located at the back of the house. Draping the cape over my shoulders, I would attempt to center myself by taking a few deep breaths. Grabbing one corner of the cloak in each of my hands, I would begin.

"One," I counted, curving the end of the cloak in my right hand in a graceful arc at my side.

"Two," I chanted, doing the same with the end of the cloak in my left hand.

Each day I would practice these simple drills, gradually heightening the arc each day as I improved. My exercise Friday morning was the real test. On that fateful day, I attempted what I knew would put all my other efforts to shame and cause Christine to swoon in my arms. That day I attempted . . . a swish and a spin. For some reason, Erik had the uncanny ability to exact a swish and a spin simultaneously. The feat of moving one's arms and legs at the same time simply baffled me. Erik would use this maneuver whenever he wished to inspire awe and fear in the heart of another human being. If trying to make a hasty disappearance, Erik first would grab hold of one end of his cloak. He would then move it in an arc high above his head while turning his back to the person he was "swishing" at. Incredible. I knew if I could perfect this one trick, Christine would be mine forever. The only move difficult trick was the graceful removal of the cape itself.

Facing the large mirror next to the window on the northern wall of my study, I steadied myself for this next feat. What occurred next seemed to be in slow-motion. Grabbing hold of the cape in my right hand, I began the routine. Throwing the yards of silk high above my head, I awaited the moment of triumph and the perfect opportunity to begin moving my feet.

_Flop_.

"Fiddlesticks!" I inwardly scolded myself for using such vulgar language as I struggled to free myself from the mounds of fabric that had dropped over my head and obscured my vision.

"That did not happen how I had planned. What could have gone wrong?" I lamented.

"Perhaps, Sir, you were supposed to retain your hold of the cloak as you spun?"

I had not noticed my manservant Willis enter the room to bring me a tray of sandwiches for lunch. Had I been in this room for that many hours? I had not noticed the time passing. Luckily, Christine had taken lunch with Madame Rieux today.

"Yes, hold the cloak! Willis, you are a genius!" I exclaimed as I ran over to my aging servant to plant a kiss, a very manly one mind you, on the top of his balding head.

Clearing his throat, Willis continued, "Ahem, very well then, Sir."

My servant made an attempt to leave, but I detained him, "No, don't go! Stay and watch. You could give me some suggestions!"

Willis placed the tray of sandwiches on an end table and seated himself on the large leather armchair that was situated next to the western wall that served as the bookcase for my study. Laying hold of the cloak, I prepared to begin the exercise once again. I swung the cloak over my head once more while being careful not to let go of the fabric this time. Just as the flying cape reached its pinnacle, I closed my eyes and commenced the next phase.

"Right foot over left. Right foot over left," I chanted to myself. I felt my body turning ever so slowly. This time, I would succeed.

Hesitantly, I opened my eyes. I was facing my writing desk – the eastern wall.

"I did it!"

"It appears so, Sir," Willis responded dutifully.

It took all the strength I had not to reprise the incident at the cape shop by jumping up and down. I wished to remain dignified, after all.

"I did it! I did it!" One more burst of jubilance couldn't hurt.

"Good show, lad. I'll be off then." Willis made the move to leave.

"No! One more thing! I have to show what I have learned from Master Giuseppe's text!"

Monday afternoon, I had made the trip to our favorite restaurant _Chateau de fromage_ to secure reservations for a table this evening. After making the necessary arrangements, I also stopped by a local bookseller to select a book that would help me with the next phase of my plan. I read Master Giuseppe's text religiously and spent hours each day pouring over his suggestions and practicing the little exercises he set forth in the chapters. This entire week, my manservant Willis proved a gracious audience and critic for my new hobby. Again, I begged his patience as I demonstrated my newly acquired skill.

"Found another one you liked, have you?" Willis asked.

"Yes! Christine is sure to love this one!" I responded as I retrieved a small box from a drawer in my writing desk. I began fidgeting with the contents of the box, demonstrating my skills to Willis.

"That was very well executed, Monsieur le Comte. You are vastly improved," Willis remarked dryly.

"You think so? You could not see anything amiss?" I questioned worriedly. Everything had to be perfect for my romantic evening with Christine. I was determined to impress her.

"No, Sir. I am assuming that you wished to drop that bit there?" he said pointing to the small red and white cardboard rectangle on the floor.

Picking it up hastily, I replied, "Yes, of course! I meant to do that!"

"Very well then, Sir. Shall you be needing any more of my services?" Willis said as he removed himself from the comfortable leather chair.

"Well, no. That should be all. What time is it Willis?"

"Half past six, Sir."

"Half past six! You should have said something! Our dinner reservations are for seven!" I fumed.

"You just seemed to be enjoying yourself so much, Sir. I did not wish to interrupt."

"You must order the carriage immediately!" I retorted.

"Yes, Sir."

"Wait, how do I look?" I asked, all at once very unsure of myself.

Willis began to smooth the cape over my shoulders. "Like you are going to a funeral. Shall that be all?" he said patting me.

I have known Willis for years. The sixty-five year old man was a servant to both my father and brother. In fact, my father and he grew up together. My father's family spent a good deal of time in England when my father was young, and the family often brought a good deal of the household staff with them on their many trips. After one particularly prolonged stay in London, my grandfather learned that my grandmother's lady's maid was quite smitten with a member of the London staff. My grandfather was always very kind and generous to his servants, and he did not wish to break up a match that was obviously for love. Therefore, he permitted his English butler and my grandmother's personal maid to wed. The couple returned with the family to Paris and shortly after had a child – my own dear Willis. My father and Willis were quite close, as my father was only five years Willis' senior. After so many years of service to the de Chagny family, Willis certainly has authority over all other servants in my home. However, his closeness with my father often makes him believe he has authority in other realms, as well.

Glaring at Willis for his remark on the funereal nature of my wardrobe, I replied, "That will be all."

"Very good, Sir. I shall order the coach to be ready."

After Willis removed himself from the room, I walked over to the mirror. I began to take in my attire. I wore black trousers and a matching jacket. The jacket, complete with tails, was closely-fitted, and an emerald-green cravat peeked out from the top. The black and green cape completed the ensemble nicely. I ran my hands through my dark-blond hair to pull it away from my eyes. I felt a smile creep into my cheeks.

Yes, I was ready to be dark and seductive.

I did not tell Christine of the evening I had planned, so you could imagine her surprise when I pulled her from her sewing to announce that we would be dining out this evening.

"Raoul, I am not even dressed for dinner out! Darling, what were you thinking?"

"I am being spontaneous!" I argued defensively.

"My love . . ."

"Christine, just throw something on! You always look wonderful!"

"Well, alright. This_ is_ rather romantic of you."

"That was the intention."

Christine placed a small kiss on my cheek and called for Claire, her lady's maid, to help her dress for the evening. Everything was going according to my plan. I placed the small box that I had removed from my desk into the pocket of my trousers. I then began to adjust my cape, as it had begun to slip to one side. I would not have time to practice the graceful removal of the cloak, but I figured I would improvise.

Christine, the dear woman, was ready within fifteen minutes, and we left for our evening out. Once we arrived at the restaurant, I helped Christine down from the carriage. My wife wore a lovely green dress (which I though complimented my new cloak nicely) and had her lovely blond tresses pulled back into a neat bun, with only a few unruly locks escaping from their confines. Such a good metaphor for her personality – shy and reserved with an inner fire waiting to break free. It was that fire I hoped to see this evening if everything went according to my plans. With that thought in mind, I brushed a wayward strand of her hair away from her face and tucked it neatly behind her ear.

"Are you ready to go in, my love?" I gave her my arm and we entered the restaurant.

_Chateau de fromage _is located on the Quai des Tuileries with a quaint view of both the gardens and the Seine River. The restaurant is small with room for only ten couples. The place itself is not well-lit – only a few gaslights and scattered table candles illuminate the space. Still, the size as well as the dim lighting seem to enhance rather than detract from the romance of an evening there.

Once we entered, a young man in his twenties – I believe he said his name was Jean – arrived to take our cloaks and seat us. He was quite courteous but muttered something about an arrogant sous-chef yelling at him for not being able to cut a tomato properly.

"What will you be having this evening?" Jean asked, suddenly regaining his composure.

"I would like the sirloin in mustard cream sauce, and my wife will be having . . . "

"The coq au vin," Christine answered.

"Would you like to begin with a bowl of our vichyssoise? It is made with potatoes and leeks."

"Yes, that would be lovely," I replied smiling.

We waited for our food in semi-silence. Strange, we had known each other since our childhood, yet being in the presence of one another still caused our hearts to jump with the nervous twitterings of adolescence.

Finally, I decided to break the awkward tension. I bided my time until the moment was just right to demonstrate the skills I had been honing for the entire week. All of my practice and all the valuable time I stole from Willis to show him my efforts would not go in vain. Master Giuseppe would be proud. Pulling the small box from my pocket, I then spoke the words I had been rehearsing for the entire week.

"Pick a card, any card."

Now, do you recall the look that the proprietor of the cape shop gave me – the look as if I had just grown a second head? – that was very similar to the look Christine was giving me now.

"Just pick one!"

"Alright, dear." Christine carefully selected a card from the deck in my hands.

"Good. Now, don't show it to me. Yes, that's right. Now place it anywhere you like in the deck." Christine did as she was told.

"Now, the Regal Raoul (I had been deciding upon a name for myself all week) will attempt to guess which card you chose!" Rifling through the deck, I selected a card.

"The ace of diamonds!"

"Um, no, honey."

"No?" Funny, _Master Giuseppe's Guide to Magic and Other Strange Things _said that the volunteer's card would be right next to the upturned card in the deck. Wait, hadn't I just told Christine to place the card anywhere she chose? Uh, oh.

I selected another card, "The eight of spades?" I suggested uncertainly.

"No, but you're very close!" Christine encouraged.

"Well, what was it, then?" I was beginning to see the futility of my efforts.

"The queen of hearts."

"Queen of hearts? How is that close to the eight of spades?" I mused.

"I was just trying to be supportive."

"Christine . . ."

Luckily, Jean arrived at that moment with the vichyssoise.

"Here you are," the waiter replied cheerily. "Enjoy!"

"Thank you," I quickly started spooning some of the liquid into my mouth to avoid the embarrassment over my failed attempt at magic.

Something was not right. Now, this was the last straw -- the one that finally broke the camel's back. I would not have one more thing happen to ruin my romantic evening with Christine.

"Monsieur," I began politely, trying to maintain my composure. No use flying into an Erik-tantrum. I vowed I would never do that again. "I fear my soup is cold."

"Cold, Monsieur? Well, vichyssoise is supposed to be . . . "

"I shall have none of your backtalk! I wish to see your head chef or manager immediately!" I felt myself growing greatly agitated.

"Raoul, really, it's alright. The soup is fine," Christine said, trying to calm me by placing a hand on my shoulder.

Just then, Jean returned with a middle-aged man I could only assume was the arrogant sous-chef mentioned earlier.

"Is something wrong, Monseiur?" the man asked, arching his dark eyebrows at me in a gesture of annoyance. Apparently, I was keeping him from something.

"Apparently not, Monsieur, as you seemed to have decided that before coming out here! Who are you and what kind of establishment is this that the customer is not always right?" I was beginning to yell.

"I, Monsieur, am Victor, sous-chef of _Chateau de fromage_. Please, calm yourself so that I may help you better."

"This soup is cold!"

The man rolled his eyes at me. The nerve!

"Monsieur le Comte. Vichyssoise is supposed to be cold."

"Supposed to be cold? I have never heard of something so disgraceful! Cold soup? My wife and I shall just have to take our business elsewhere – someplace that does not have the audacity to serve its patrons cold soup!"

I gestured for Christine to rise and follow me. She did so with a look that I could only describe as carefully guarded concern. I helped Christine with her cloak and then put on mine. Just as we reached the door, I had a thought. This would be the perfect moment to exhibit the "swish and spin." Erik would certainly never leave a room in a huff without haughtily flinging his cape in someone's face. I went back to the table where I had left a very bemused sous-chef and his waiter to clean up our plates. Approaching the sous-chef, I flung my cape in a graceful arc over my head and began to turn to the door. Unfortunately, as I did so, the back of the cloak came down upon the table – one end landing in a bowl of disgustingly cold vichyssoise and the other end grazing a candle strategically placed across from Christine's chair (to enhance the romantic mood). Now, apparently, vichyssoise is highly combustible, as my cape suddenly became engulfed in flames.

Next, I did what I could – shriek and fling the flaming thing from my body. This was not exactly the elegant removal I had hoped to show Christine later in our bedroom at home. The look on Jean's face was one of sheer terror as his eyes became the size of the bread plates on the table.

"Don't just stand there!" Victor commanded. "Get something to put it out!"

Jean ran from the room and returned with a pail of water just as two other waiters began jumping up and down on my cape and beating it with tablecloths they had hastily removed from nearby tables. Something about the vision of the waiters jumping up and down on my cape seemed oddly familiar, but I could not put my finger on what it was. Jean then doused my cape with the water.

"I believe this is yours, Monsieur. Perhaps, you and your wife had better be leaving," Victor said angrily as he handed me my badly singed but still intact cape.

At that moment, I began to see capes as perfectly useless pieces of clothing. They serve no useful purpose. They are really not all that warm, and all they do is get in the way and start fires.

"I can be perfectly Erik-like without it," I muttered to myself as I walked with my head down towards my waiting wife.

What Christine did next surprised me. She began . . . laughing. She finds me amusing. Being found amusing is perhaps worse than being considered dull. This was the turning point. At last I realized how wrong I was to think that I could do this half way. How stupid to believe that I could win Christine entirely by not giving my all, by not losing myself entirely to the world of Erik. I had been careless. Practicing my skills in the mornings was not enough. I must devote myself every waking hour to my mission. I must give my heart and soul to win what it is my heart and soul most desire. There is no half way. From now on, there will be no turning back.

Yours,

Raoul

**Review Please!** By the way, vichyssoise is a soup meant to be served cold. Our dear Raoul was a bit confused. Some think vichyssoise was actually invented in 1917 at the Ritz-Carlton in New York (so I am being a bit anachronistic) by a Frenchman who named it for the town he was from. I do not know if the soup is "highly combustible."


	6. Chapter 6: Lurking in Shadows

**A/N:** She's alive! To all who were worried . . . I am not dead. I apologize for the delayed update (hence the insanely long Author's Note). I am a teacher and have been very busily occupied with my lovely little ones (all the while looking at my Erik plushie . . . thanks Indiefilm . . . using it as a reminder that it is not nice to kill people). Thanks to all my lovely reviewers, particularly indiefilm, BleedingHeartConservative, TruthQuestor, and broadwaygeek24601 (Who am I? . . . 24601! – sorry, I couldn't resist). You are the greatest. Thanks so much to new reviewers PhantomoftheBasket, L'Arcange, Keyklee, and aSqueeintheDistance! To Squee: You are sweet. Thanks so much for the encouraging reviews. I, too, appreciate well-written fanfiction, so that is what I strive for. I am glad to hear I have coined a new catch phrase: "It would be in poor taste to bludgeon one's dinner guest with a baked good." Hehe. As for Raoul being "Past the Point of No Return," that is exactly what I had in mind when I wrote that. Good job. To LaurieLovesErik (don't we all): I think Erik's diary could be very funny. Let's just say, my Raoul has some plans for him.  **To all: anonymous reviews are now accepted, so please drop me a note!**

**Audience Participation:** Alright, I live to please, so . . . who would you like to see appear in my story? Erik is a given. Don't worry. Be patient with me. He's coming, but Raoul just needs to get a bit more ridiculous first. So, who else would you like to see? The Persian? Carlotta? Mme. Giry? Meg? A manager? A character from one of your stories (BHC . . . I may kidnap Anton. haha)? Let me know what you think. Also, if _you _want to be in the story, let me know. Give me the reason you think you should be in it, the character name you would like, and in what capacity you would like to function -- other than Erik's new love interest. Sorry ladies, that's for the sequel. Yes, there will be a sequel. I could have your character talk/interact with Erik in this story if you like, but . . . you must review first!

**Allusions: **Bonus points (or Erik plushies, or whatever you like) if you can tell me what Raoul does that is very "Mr. Darcy-like" (other than what he says he is doing to be like Darcy).

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** Hmmm . . . usually writers say something creative here. Have any ideas for me? How about "I don't own _PotO_, but I have temporarily kidnapped the characters and am holding them for ransom?" Sound good?

Now, you are all wondering what Christine thinks of Raoul's behavior, so here we go . . .

Ch. 6: Lurking in Shadows

_Last time . . . instead of the "bend and snap," Raoul attempted the "swish and spin." We also learned that vichyssoise is highly combustible . _

Dear Raoul,

So this is what you have been up to! With all that yelling and then the incident at the restaurant, I was beginning to worry that Francoise's cooking was not sitting well with you. I thought we would have to hire a new cook! My darling, what were you thinking? You are trying to be more like Erik? Why would you do that? I chose _you, _you silly fool! I think you are adorable the just way you are, and I wouldn't change a thing about you.

Love,

Your wife Christine

P.S. Oh, and remember to leave your undergarments out for Nicolette to wash. If you don't have them ready, she will be gone for the weekend, and Claire will have to take care of everything. You know how you chafe if anyone other than Nicolette does the wash.

Monday, January 14, 18--,

Dear Diary,

I began the morning with a rather heated argument with my wife about reading my diary. I tried to explain to her that a man has the right to record his own private musings if he chooses, but she merely continued to gaze at me with a bemused expression. I also insisted that I, under no uncertain terms, _chafe_.

Though I was rather angered at Christine's invasion of my privacy, I cannot deny that the information I gleaned from her little intrusion was rather invaluable. My worst fears were confirmed. Christine's quiet reserve at our dinner parties revealed that she fancies me dull. Her laughter at _Chateau de fromage_ revealed that she sees me as amusing. Now, I am . . . adorable.

I do not wish to be adorable! Handsome? Yes. Adorable? Absolutely not! _Adorable_ is not an adjective that implies manliness or power. That got me thinking . . . I consider myself manly, yet . . . I am keeping a diary. Erik would never say "Dear Diary." Diary does not sound manly_ or_ mysterious. "Journal" perhaps? Erik probably would not keep a diary _or_ a journal. In order to work out his problems, he would simply talk to himself. Yes, I must stay focused. How would Erik handle this?

Honestly, I rather _like_ keeping a diary. I find it very relaxing allowing my worries to flow freely onto a blank page. I can often devise a solution to whatever was troubling me by the time I have finished writing. I shall have to compromise and settle on calling this little book "journal" from now on. "Dear Journal." Alas, it just does not have the same ring. "Dear Diary" has such lovely alliteration. Ah, well.

I did not destroy the cape. My anger calmed, and, considering all the work that must have went into creating such a specimen, I felt that it was just too lovely to part with. It could prove useful later, and, as the cape shop proprietor said, wielding such a weapon would take practice. Erik has a good hundred years or so on me. Still, I decided to keep the object of my embarrassment safely locked away in our chest for the time being.

Perhaps, _Chateau de fromage _was far too public to achieve any significant romantic gains. A controlled environment in which I could carefully plan and execute every aspect of a romantic evening would be more fitting. Erik had the advantage of being on his "own turf." He could ensure that no outside distractions were present. He commands attention. I, too, will need to provide myself such an advantage.

I decided that it would be best to set aside a place for myself in order to work on my plan to romance Christine. I would need a place that would provide me with the utmost privacy yet would still provide me enough space to work. The gardener's shed was certainly out of the question. Too many rakes and other pointy things. Our attic space is far too small and dusty – I have allergies, you see. I decided that our wine cellar would be the best location to flesh out my plan. Not quite five stories below an opera house, but it will have to suffice.

Erik himself is a master craftsman and architect. His world is just as he wishes because he made it that way. Why cannot I create a world eternally appealing to my Christine? I too can create a world of romance from which she would never wish to escape. You see, Erik? I too can create. I decided . . . to build something . . . a feat of architecture right out of a fairy tale.

Late morning, I asked Willis to procure a large quantity of wood as well as drafting and building tools. After obtaining these items, Willis immediately brought them to our cellar. After all of the items were in place, I sat down at my old writing desk (also moved to the cellar) to begin drawing up a plan.

No one really realizes how dark it is in a cellar until one has to work by the glow of a single candle. Truly, it is a miracle Erik hasn't gone blind. The lighting conditions really are horrible. Still, if I recall, Erik had quite a few candles. Perhaps that helps.

After one hour of accomplishing nothing more than writing Christine's name one hundred times and drawing little hearts and various other doodles on a sheet of drafting paper, I decided that I would need a bit more information before determining what exactly I was to build for Christine. After all, what did I really know about her innermost dreams and desires? As I said, there would be no turning back, and I will need to do whatever it takes to achieve my objective.

Erik seemed to have the ability to know Christine's wants, needs, and desires even before she did. Sometimes it was frightening how well he knew her. Before she knew Erik the man, Christine could have easily explained that this was not surprising. Her teacher was an angel, and angels are supposed to know everything! However, this angel was all too fully human. How could a human achieve this psychic feat? The same way I vowed to – by spying.

I would have to be stealthy. Calculating. I wanted Christine to be completely surprised when my gift to her – whatever it would be -- was finished.

"I can see you."

"Merde," I cursed under my breath. Ducking behind a nearby curtain, I attempted to conceal myself from Willis as he arranged the calling cards left by our maid Claire in the sitting room.

"I can still see you," Willis remarked as he stacked the cream-colored cards in a neat pile on the oak table by the front door.

Noticing that the top of my head was still protruding from behind the curtain, I stretched my right arm out as long as I could to grab a nearby pillow from the chaise. Thrusting the burgundy pillow in front of my face, I queried in a muffled tone, "Now?"

"That's very good sir," Willis replied drolly. Was that a hint of a smile I saw?

"Willis, you are not taking me seriously!"

"Of course I am, sir." Grabbing my coat from its position on the chaise, Willis began to dust the garment with the back of his hand. Remnants of dry, caked vichyssoise.

"You were laughing at me," I replied with a pout as I tossed the pillow, emerged from behind the curtain, and plopped onto the chaise.

"On the contrary, sir. I never laugh. A good chortle now and then is acceptable, but laughing? Never."

"Then you admit to chortling!"

"I admit to nothing other than my name."

"You're no help at all," I whined.

"What would you have me do, sir?"

"Some constructive criticism would help."

"You wish for my advice?"

"Yes."

"I say abandon the whole thing."

"Absolutely not!"

"You have a beautiful wife who adores you and . . ."

"She chortles at me as well!"

"You are an entertaining fellow," Willis said with that irritating, bemused grin of his.

"Willis . . ." I could feel my temples pulsing as anger built inside of me. Oooh . . . very Eriky.

"Do not become overworked, sir."

"Overworked! Overworked!" I rose from the chaise and began to pace the room angrily . . . until Willis looked at me with a knowing expression. I sat immediately back down.

"Sir, your wife loves you. Why change anything?"

"This means a lot to me."

"I know, sir. And I will support my master in anything. I just . . ."

"You will support me without question?"

"That I will, sir."

"Then let that be the end of it."

"As you please, sir. I just do not wish to lose the man I have come to love and respect."

"I'm fine, Willis," I returned with a degree of frustration. Hearing someone descend the stairs, I turned to see my wife.

Christine was dressed in a lovely peach-colored dress with matching jacket and gloves. As always, she was an angelic vision of loveliness.

"Raoul, darling, Claire and I are going to take a walk to the church. Nicolette will have dinner ready for when we return."

"That's fine, dear," I returned lovingly, a plan forming in my head.

Coming towards me, Christine placed a quick kiss on my cheek and left with Claire. Quickly grabbing my coat from Willis' hands, I made my way to the door.

"Where are you going, sir?" Willis questioned with a hint of concern in his voice.

"To the church."

"You'll escort the ladies, sir?"

"Of course not! That will defeat the point of sneakiness!"

"Sneakiness, sir?" Willis asked as he arched on bushy, gray eyebrow.

"Yes."

"You will _spy _on the ladies, sir?"

"It sounds so bad when you say it that way!"

"It is none of my business, sir."

"That't right. It's not," I answered with satisfaction.

Throwing a quick nod in Willis' direction, I left on my mission to "spy" on my wife. Now would be the time to put my stealth to the test.

Running down our front steps, I made my way into the Parisian streets. The Rue de Montmorency was normally quite peaceful this time of year. However, this January was unusually warm, and numerous families and amorous couples lined the street, out for a walk before dinner. I spotted Christine and Claire half a block ahead of me. Turning in their direction, I set out in a jog to catch up.

"Watch where you're going!" A stout little elderly woman shouted as I plowed into her, sending her armload of fruit and vegetables flying into the air.

Stooping to retrieve the woman's purchases I apologized, "I'm so very sorry! I did not see you there."

"Obviously not! If you would watch . . ." looking up from her bent posture for the first time, "Oh, pardon me, Monsieur le Comte! I did not realize it was you!"

Examining the woman, I noticed that she wore the attire of a household servant. She assumed the groveling posture of one who realized she had spoken out of turn to one of higher rank.

"The fault is mine, Madame. I should have paid more attention. I was simply in a hurry to catch up with my wife who walks ahead," I pointed to Christine, now far down the block. "If you would allow me to pay for your damaged goods, I will be on my way."

Thrusting a few coins into the bewildered woman's hand, I sped down the street.

When I reached my wife, Christine and her petite maid were sitting with their backs to me on a bench in front of St. Michael's Church. Ducking behind the rectory, I was able to get within five feet of my wife without her seeing me. So far, so good.

"Yes, I think we need to do something about the positioning of the settees in the garden this year," Christine remarked to her maid.

"You are not pleased with them, Mum?" questioned Claire in her best French, though hints of her foreign accent could still be heard. I must hand it to the girl. Leaving her native Ireland only two years before as a nanny for a wealthy British family that relocated to Paris, Claire was picking up on our language rather quickly.

"Oh, no, they are lovely, Claire! Your work on the cushions is exquisite! They just face the sun too much. One cannot enjoy the beautiful flowers without a danger to one's eyesight!"

"I see, Mum," Claire answered politely. When the children of the Warren family, Claire's former employers, were sent to boarding school this past fall, Claire came to work for us. The official story was that her services were no longer needed. However, Claire's flighty, nervous manner and almost obsessive desire to please her new master and mistress seems to suggest that she did not leave the Warrens on pleasant terms.

"That's all, Claire. I would just like to be able to sit in a bit more shade," my wife explained.

So, Christine wants more shade. Could it be she _prefers _the darkness? I would have to file this bit of information away for later.

"Enough of my whims!" Christine laughed as she tossed a strand of blond hair from her eyes. "I still feel as if I know so very little about _you_!"

"Me?" Claire questioned uncertainly.

"Yes, of course!"

"There's not much to tell, Mum," Claire gazed at the ground and her long, red curls began to obscure her face.

"I'm sure that is not true. What sort of things do you like?"

"You wish to know what I like?"

"Yes! Do you have any favorite books? Or perhaps you enjoy music or the theatre?"

Laughing to herself, Claire replied, "I've hardly had time or the resources to attend much theatre."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Christine said, undoubtedly realizing she had, in her eagerness to show kindness towards her new maid, momentarily forgotten the vast differences in social standing and opportunities between herself and Claire.

"Not your fault, Mum. We only know how to respond based on our own experiences. Our actions, speech, and behavior stem directly from our own sphere of knowledger."

"'Sphere of knowledge?' You speak as if you have had access to a vast 'sphere of knowledge.'"

"Well, I do like to read."

"At last, something we can talk about!"

"I must admit, my experience with classic literature is limited. I was taught to read as a child. I read the Bible mostly, as that is what we had access to."

"It sounds as if you have read more than just the Bible!"

"My father would bring my brother and I books once in awhile. Philosophy mostly. My father was an educated man, you see! He just fell on hard times. Still, he wanted his children, even his daughter, to be educated." Claire's countenance fell, and she grew pensive for a moment.

Sympathetically, Christine leaned in, and laid a hand on Claire's shoulder, "I miss my father, too. Your father seems to have been a good man."

"Oh, he was." Sniffing, Claire's face immediately brightened. "But enough sadness! Tell me of your favorite books, Mum!"

"I enjoy Hugo, though my favorite novel is Jane Austen's _Pride and Prejudice_."

"Oh, I have read that one, Mum! It's the one with the Darcy lad, isn't it?" Claire exclaimed, with her eyes uncharacteristically bright.

"Yes, though I have never heard of him referred to as 'that Darcy lad!'" Christine replied as she strained to hold back her laughter.

"And what was your favorite part, Mum?" Claire continued.

"Well, I like how the book is about second chances. Taking a second look at those we disregard with only a first glance. I think we can all relate to that."

"Aye, Mum."

Aye, indeed. I, too, had read the book. The wise and witty Elizabeth Bennet rejects the initial advances and proposals of the distant, proud, and haughty Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy. However, Elizabeth comes to regret her rejections of the man and her early positive impressions of the charming Mr. Wickham.

It is worse than I thought. Christine finds solace and inspiration in the tail of a woman who learns that she misjudged her original suitor. My wife enjoys stories that champion the underdog. Oh, Christine! Could you be planning to return to the man you originally rejected!

"Achoo!" Oh, no. I looked up quickly to see if the two ladies had heard my rather boisterous sneeze. They had. Luckily, they could not place the exact source of the noise and merely strained their necks in the general vicinity of where the noise had come from.

Now, you must know, that I am not easily afflicted with colds and the like. However, I do have rather nasty allergies, as previously mentioned. Wondering what could have caused my outburst, I felt a slight rubbing against my calf.

"Shoo! Go away!" I whispered frantically to a little tabby cat that had suddenly and inexplicably taken a liking to me. "Go now! You'll spoil everything!"

"Meow!" The cat bellowed loudly.

"Shush!" I gently pushed the cat away from me with my foot.

"Meow! Meow! Meow!" The cat would have none of my reproofs. She was coming with me. Rubbing her head affectionately against my leg, the tabby let out one more "Meow!" for good measure.

I tried to back up away from the enthusiastic and love struck feline, and, as I did, managed to entangle my legs in a rake that was leaning inconspicuously against the rectory. Now, I have seen the pastor of St. Michael's, and it appears it has been a long time since the man has done gardening or any other kind of physical labor, if you know what I mean. Therefore, my encounter with the rake proved doubly disconcerting. So much for my desire to stay far away from rakes and other pointy things.

Unable to detangle my feet, I went tumbling head first into a pile of . . . well . . .

"Merde!" I shouted front my face plant in the pile of nastiness. Really, I have never seen this man garden!

Turning over, I looked up to see Christine and Claire gazing at me with a mixture of concern and amusement.

"Love, let me help you up!" Christine guided me up with a loving touch as Claire detangled my legs from the evil rake.

"My darling, what were you doing?"

"I well . . .um . . . was coming to check on you?" I offered.

* * * *

After returning home, my wife retired to her sitting room and I to my new "lair" as we awaited dinner. What a disaster the day had been. Ah, well. Not all was lost. I learned more valuable information to help me in my quest to win Christine once and for all. Apparently, the woman liked darkness. Well, that will save money on oil and candles. Also, she enjoyed stories with dark, brooding, misunderstood heroes. Just another bit of evidence that women are a complete paradox. Do they like security or danger? Apparently, my wife enjoys the later. But what to do about it?

"Meow!" the little tabby replied to my silent question. Now, I tried to rid myself of the little creature back at the pile of . . . back at the rectory. However, the little beast would have none of it. She has claimed me for her own and will not hear reason to the contrary. She followed me home and has insisted on remaining with me in my lair.

"Meow!"

"Will you be quiet! I can't think!"

"Meow?" the tabby responded timidly.

"Oh, all right. Come on up."

I gestured to my lap, and the cat immediately jumped into my waiting arms.

"What shall we do about Christine?" I asked my little friend.

"Meow?"

"I know! I can think of nothing either!"

I paused for a moment, realizing that I was talking to my cat. Where is Willis when I need him?

As if on cure, Willis appeared from the shadows, "Dinner is ready, sir."

"Thank you, Willis." Rising, I followed the old butler to dinner.

* * * *

I enjoyed a lovely dinner with Christine. However, as desert arrived, I decided to put some of my newfound knowledge to the test. Leaning closely into the table, I tossed what I thought was a seductive glance in my wife's direction.

"Will you please stop that!" Christine exclaimed.

"Stop what?" I questioned innocently.

"You're glowering at me!"

"Am not."

"You are! You been staring at me from across the table like that all night. I can't take it anymore!"

"Can't I gaze upon my beautiful wife?"'

"You are just making me nervous."

Okay. Glowering was not what I had in mind. How did Mr. Darcy do it? He brooded about all day and still got the girl. I myself would find such behavior terribly annoying, but it seemed to work for him.

"I'm sorry, my love," I apologized.

"You're doing it again!"

Flustered beyond a doubt by Christine's response to my attempts to be like the dark and brooding heroes of literature she seemed to love, I did what any dark and brooding hero of literature would do: I went and stood by the window.

Yours,

Raoul

**A/N: Okay, all. Any suggestions for Claire? I have some plans . . . Also, Raoul's furry friend needs a name. Any ideas?**


End file.
